


Conventional Parabolas

by manic_intent



Series: Clockwork Soldiers [3]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Light BDSM, M/M, Psychological rambling, Q is pretty sure that this isn't in his job description
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-23
Updated: 2012-11-23
Packaged: 2017-11-19 08:06:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/571047
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/manic_intent/pseuds/manic_intent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Q decides that analog guns are far too last century, and doesn't realize that 007 might react badly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Conventional Parabolas

**Author's Note:**

> Written for kleinelady1, prompt: "trust". title from Casino Royale's book: 
> 
> “The conventional parabola--sentiment, the touch of the hand, the kiss, the passionate kiss, the feel of the body, the climax in the bed, then more bed, then less bed, then the boredom, the tears and the final bitterness--was to him shameful and hypocritical.”

I.

Mallory - _M_ \- at least had the grace to look distinctly uncomfortable when Q let himself into his office and closed the door behind him. "Q."

"Sir."

M cleared his throat, glanced at the reports on his table, then his laptop, and sighed, squaring his shoulders as though he were a man looking to face a firing squad. "About your... arrangement with 007."

"Sir." Q kept his face expressionless, if only to see M squirm. Old-fashioned in many ways that the previous M was not, the new M amused Q, sometimes. Still, he _did_ have a higher regard for Q-branch than the previous M ever had, and Q decided to take a little pity, for the sake of his job if anything else. "I'm not aware that it's relevant in the context of our occupations."

M closed his eyes to rub at the bridge of his nose briefly. "Do you know why MI6 tolerates the 00s' extravagant lifestyles where such behaviour would usually be grounds for dismissal for any other government operative?"

"Because they're fundamentally unstable," Q said, dispassionately. "Humans are social creatures. People who have been trained to kill with little more remorse than they would for stepping on ants therefore have been hard-wired differently, some way or another. They suffer from a dissonant psychosis that can only be tampered by an equally dissonant lifestyle."

M grimaced at Q's blunt explanation, but he nodded. "That, and despite my - and the Prime Minister's - best efforts, the 00s remain indispensable to MI6. A... dissonant lifestyle, as you term it, creates few, if any, personal ties. The 00s are cultivated to live only for their work. You've seen how dangerous they can be if they are turned."

"I still fail to see how this is relevant, with all due respect, sir." 

This time, M fixed him with a calm, assessing stare. "Hypothetically, Q, if I were to order 007 to shoot you, would he do it?"

Q arched an eyebrow. "No more than he would shoot Moneypenny just on your say so."

"Even if you were a double agent?"

"I could do far more damage to MI6 outside-"

"Hypothetically."

Q considered this carefully, unconcerned with M's eyeballing. 007 _was_ loyal to Queen and Country, he supposed, and he had trained all his life to obey the evidence. As to the last time that someone 007 had been emotionally drawn to- "Is this about Vesper?"

"No, no." M said, with another grimace. "The point is that 007 remains valuable to MI6, if because of his unnatural luck if nothing else, and his efficacy seems rather more easily compromised of late and-"

"Ah," Q blinked, as realization dawned. "This is about the gun." 

" _Hypothetically_ , a brilliant concept," M allowed, visibly relieved now that he didn't have to proceed with his painfully meandering mental script, "Contextual auto-targeting, accurate and stable to within one per cent on a pistol? Brilliant. And it would correct his failing aim. I might even want one for myself. But perhaps you... did not consider what presenting such a device to him would seem like to him. Especially from you."

"He's hardly of an age to throw tantrums over a bruised ego," Q said dryly. "The gun was a practical solution. And it wasn't made only for him. We have plans to try and fit the system onto a sniper rifle. Accidents like Moneypenny's would-"

"He failed to show up for a debrief two hours ago over the Kabul situation," M interrupted briskly. "And he's gone to ground. Find him and do something about it. I may value you and your team far more than my predecessor," he added, when Q opened his mouth to politely decline, "But in some contexts, even an old dog wielding an old gun will be more effective than all the technology in the world. Thank you, Q."

It wasn't a graceful dismissal, despite M's practiced smile, but Q forced an answering one and stepped out of the office with a nod, carefully swallowing his burst of frustrated temper. Outside, Moneypenny glanced up when Q closed the door, and her smile was wry. "Old dogs still have their pride."

"Remind me why I thought perhaps that going along with your suggestions was ever a good idea."

"You like the challenge," Moneypenny turned back to her laptop. "Otherwise, you get bored. Do you want me to help you trace his paper trail?"

"If he's gone to ground, he'll know better than to use credit cards." Q sighed. So much for his plans to spend the afternoon putting the finishing touches on the new security system. "I'll find him."

II.

Q wasn't entirely surprised when MANDALA's newest data mining facial recognition upgrade placed 007 within Claridges: old dogs, old habits. Nor was he surprised to find 007 entangled with a gorgeous young woman when he got the door to 007's room to open for him with a scan of his phone. The young lady let out a shriek when Q had switched on the lights and arched an eyebrow, and 007 briefly groped automatically for his gun before dropping his hand.

"You're meant to be at work," Q said dryly, inspecting his phone for new emails. The Farm was proceeding on the security system based on standing instructions, but it was going far too slowly for his liking. "Are you going to go quietly, or do I have to make your life difficult for you?"

"What part of my life _isn't_ difficult?" 007 asked dryly, though he balanced back on the palms of his hands, seemingly unconcerned at being caught in the act of being thoroughly unproductive.

"I'm sorry, I wasn't aware that I'd stumbled on some sort of pity party. And would you _please_ leave the room, miss," Q added, with a sigh, as the young lady tried another shriek, "I'm afraid that your playmate is going to be indisposed."

"Actually, you'll be leaving," 007 retorted. "I'll return when I'm well and ready."

"If you're bent on indulging a sudden mid-life crisis," Q noted mildly, "I would have thought that you'd have a little more taste than to pick up a school dropout fresh from the country. One of the bar girls, I surmise, erratic eating habits, trying to buffer her low self-esteem by sleeping with easy men and purchasing brands well above her wage level, trying to stave off creeping age with a not-so-judicious application of silicone. Well done."

The woman glared at him, and got off the bed, dressing stiffly, but as she stalked over, her hands clenched, as though about to slap him, 007 warned, quietly and flatly from the bed, "Don't touch him."

She shot 007 a backward, disbelieving stare, then stormed out of the room with a curse, and 007 relaxed, shaking his head. "And I suppose that you looked her up beforehand?"

"Hardly. I don't need to bother with all that when it's plain as day from her clothes and personal bearing. Are you coming back with me now?"

007 rolled his shoulders into a languid shrug. "Why bother? I'm 'indisposed'. Get someone else to pull the triggers on your automated toys."

"Oh, for God's sake," Q growled, tucking his phone away, "Do you really need me to massage your ego? Give you a shoulder to cry on? I'll have you know that you're interrupting a very delicate operation in the Farm that I'll like to return to as soon as possible."

"Then go. I'm not stopping you."

"There remains the delicate problem of M being rather put out that you missed a debrief." Q narrowed his eyes, "If you're going to be a child about it, give the gun back to me, and I promise to never attempt to present you with anything remotely clever or subtle ever again."

"It wasn't about pride," 007 snapped, and the old dog was barking now, baring its teeth, "It was about _trust_."

"No, it was about looking at a problem and coming up with a lateral solution."

"What problem? Ageing old spies?"

"You're not at the centre of the bloody world, James," Q folded his arms, "There are plenty of agents out there without perfect aim. Hell, M asked for one of the guns for _himself_." 

"And if they didn't want their aim corrected by a goddamned _computer_?"

"Then they can use a fucking store-bought Glock like the rest of the unprivileged masses," Q shot back, his eyes narrowing, "Instead of drowning in melodrama and running away to _sulk_. It was a mere by-product of progress. You'll hardly find an analog camera nowadays. Why can't guns go digital?"

"Was I the first 00 whom you presented that gun to?"

"Certainly. The first 00 with a relevant mission at a relevant time." 

"And the oldest one."

"If you're about to get into a pissing contest with the other 00s, I'll have you know that I'm due to present the same gun to 004 later in the day or so, depending on whether you can be arsed to go back and do your job, and I suspect that he'll be rather more appreciative about it."

"Let him go to Kabul," 007 was clearly intent on being as childish as possible, even settling back down on the bed and folding his hands over his chest, though he watched Q closely when Q rolled his eyes and padded over to sit down beside him. Scenes weren't meant to be started like this, Q knew, it would be too dangerous - not with temper on his side and some sort of twisted hurt on 007's, as easy as it would be to bend 007 to his will, so he kept his hands to himself, struggling for patience.

"Don't harp on about trust when you didn't trust the rest of _us_ to do our jobs," Q noted instead, when he managed calm. "Running off to the middle of Scotland, where I couldn't help you? Where none of us could? 002 and 006 were in London. You could have at least brought them along. Or Moneypenny, even."

"M wanted it to be just the two of us. Orders from up high." 

"And you've been so very good at listening to her orders all the time, I suppose."

"I've had this conversation before with you," 007 noted neutrally, trying so hard for disinterest when Q could read want in all the hard, tense lines of 007's body, and maybe this was why M was worried, really; dogs obeyed and followed their masters, often with no concern for logic or self-preservation.

With this in mind, Q forced his temper under control, trying for gentleness. "Very well. I'm sorry if I hurt your... feelings, James. I'll give you one of the older Walther models on our return."

007 only watched him with the same tight silence, his jaw set, and after a while, Q exhaled, restless again. "Why are you being so difficult?"

"Guess. Aren't people simple to you?" 

It took Q another moment to swallow his rising irritation, forcing his brain to consider a balance of probabilities, 007's schedule, Q's own, the past week in London and... _ah_. "How did you manage to follow me on Sunday?"

007's mouth curled - he'd guessed correctly. "No electronics."

Q and some members of the Farm had been more or less accurately testing AEGIS for a few weeks - another personal, contextual computing system that alerted the wearer whenever a set of electronic signatures registered itself repeatedly within range of the wearer over a certain threshold of pings, after which a the wearer could choose to emit a localised EMP pulse. It was still bugged and unreliable, but glumly, Q supposed that it was just like 007 to instinctively latch on to AEGIS' greatest weakness without even knowing about the prototype.

Ah well. Back to the drawing board. 

"I've told you before that I take other partners."

007 eyed him flatly. "Was that boy more your 'type', then? Young?"

"He was my age, thank you. Don't be ridiculous about this, James," Q said dryly, "How many women do you sleep with during a mission, on average?"

"Sex is better than resorting to drugs or alcohol while on a job."

 _Something to keep the beast calm_ , Q thought, observing the hard gleam in 007's eyes, the curl to his lip. 

Angry and feeling wounded, the ill-trained dog was looking for an excuse to bite its master's hand, and if that happened, it'd be uncontrollable again. He supposed that he should have thought to set more parameters to their arrangement; should have _known_ how obstinate and troublesome 007 might be once an attachment was formed. After all, it was probably exactly what drove him to keep succeeding at his missions for the previous M, defying death even when face to face with it.

And it was very likely what drove Silva to commit years of resources and insane planning into murdering her.

"How is that about trust?" Q asked, finally, as mildly as possible. "We have an arrangement, not a relationship: you come to me if you think that you need me. If I'm free, I'll help you. It shouldn't be complicated."

"Doing what you can to keep the gears oiled on yet another one of MI6's weapons?" 

The bitterness in 007's tone startled Q into blinking. "No, of course not."

"What happens one day when I'm far too old for field work? Or if you're no longer 'free', or you don't want to be?" 

There are clubs for scenes, Q almost said, but hastily rethought his comment under 007's unblinking stare, and sighed, staring back down at his hands. After a while, when 007 said nothing at all, Q murmured, "This wasn't exactly what I thought I would be doing when I applied to join MI6." When there was only a low huff beside him, Q added, "I thought it'd just be a matter of building gadgets and conducting government-sanctioned hacking sprees, all with a large salary and all the equipment in the world that I could buy or build at my fingertips."

"I didn't really think that I'll end up having to wrestle bureaucrats for even a measly budget, that I was going to have to claw my way to the top of Q-branch just to make any effective changes, that I'll be presiding over two huge security breaches within three months of my tenure as Q, the first due to the existing, outdated system, and the second due to my own over-confidence. Or that I'll end up having to undertake a short stint as a handler, with someone's life in my hands, depending on me to make the right decisions at the right times in order to save the lives of others."

"It was frightening," Q continued, when 007 didn't say anything. "Exhilarating. Humbling. And I thought that I would never want to do that again, only for the agent in question to place himself back into my hands, and I thought, why not? So I tried it, and I thought maybe that was over and done with, but this agent's a stubborn old dog that's used to getting its way, and eventually, after the second time, the third, I realized that it was looking for something from me that was far beyond what I normally give to my partners. Beyond what I was comfortable giving to another human being."

"And that, too, was humbling. So I tried to remake the problem that I saw into an arrangement that could sit easy with the both of us. I suppose we should have had this conversation earlier." This time, Q reached out, to touch fingertips to 007's arm. "I'm sorry for that, if nothing else."

007 glanced at his hand, then tracked his eyes back to Q's face. "I asked you a question."

Trust 007 to act like a proverbial bulldog. Q sighed. "What sort of answer are you looking for?" 

"I won't turn into Silva," 007 said quietly, "It wasn't the betrayal from M that broke him. It was the torture, and the faulty cyanide capsule." 

"Well-"

"I thought about killing that boy you were with," 007 continued, flicking his eyes back up to the ceiling. "It would have been easy. But I didn't. I've never killed anyone outside of a mission's parameters before that wasn't in self defence. So I chose not to pull the trigger, even though the... even though I wanted to. And then I came to work, and the first time you spoke to me in over a week was to present me with some sort of prosthetic gun." 007 ignored Q's irritated exhalation, adding, just as quietly, "It wasn't like this with M. I was fine with the other 00s. I didn't even think of her as some sort of..." This time, when 007 glanced back at him, the predator was looking out from the gleam in his eyes. "What have you done to me?"

It occurred distantly to Q that he should have been afraid, looking a killer in the eyes and at his mercy; 007 could probably kill him before he even reached the door if he tried to run, without even trying very hard. But it was exhilarating instead, again, and Q supposed that after one got used to playing with fire, everything else tended to pale in comparison.

"I tried to give you what I thought that you needed. And," Q added, when 007 tilted his head, "I'll give it to you for as long as you need it from me."

"Will you, now," 007 was sitting up and behind him with startling speed, warm breath grazing his ear, his jaw. 

Q forced himself not to flinch. "I didn't realize that you would be jealous."

"I thought that you could read people."

"I'm also human," Q said, and there was irritation there despite his best efforts. "I make mistakes. You're amply aware of that. Besides, logically-"

"You think that this is _logical_?"

"It should be," Q muttered, but this time, when 007 let out a low huff, there was humor there, and he relaxed, folding his hands together. 

He hadn't realized that what he had seen as a comfortable arrangement had somehow curled and wrought itself into something more anyway, something beyond the sum of an old 00's psychological hang-ups and Q's curiosity. Somewhere along the line, 007 had decided to trust Q with everything that made him _James_ and not something more like Silva, and the responsibility, the _power_ , was near overwhelming. Nearly intoxicating. He wondered if M had felt like this, keeping in control of all her deadly little killers, if the new M would learn how, and Q smiled wryly to himself, giving in. After all, this was something new, having someone depend on him for far more than scratching an unusual itch, and Q did always like novelty.

"Take a shower. I can still smell her on you. Is the couch contaminated?"

"No," 007 noted dryly, though he shifted away, and Q got up without a backward glance, padding out to the living space of the lovely hotel room and settling against the plush lime green cushions over the graceful couch, shrugging off his coat and folding it on the side table. 

He was typing out an email to the minions when 007 reappeared, damp and unselfconsciously naked, his cock already growing hard as he knelt between Q's knees, and he splayed his palms on Q's thighs when Q slipped down against the couch a fraction and spread his legs, still typing. 007 growled, but he got rid of Q's belt and unbuttoned his pants, dragging pants and underwear to his ankles, then tugging Q over with hands over his hips to mouth hungrily up swelling flesh. 

"Don't tease," Q instructed absently, starting a new paragraph with a suggestion about subroutines, then he bit off a gasp as 007 unhesitatingly swallowed him down, sucking until Q's cock filled his mouth and pushed against his throat, and he groaned, closing his eyes, the vibration making Q's fingers slip briefly on the touchpad of his phone. Q lowered his free hand to swipe fingers through damp, short hair, curling over the back of 007's scalp, chuckling a little breathlessly when 007 whined, muffled, and tried to take in more, wrapping a hand over the rest and squeezing. 

"Eventually," Q murmured, "You'll have to learn how to use just your mouth. Take all of it down your throat, wrap your lips around the root - you'll like that, won't you? Stuffed full with nowhere to go, my hand on the back of your neck..." Q shifted down his hand to damp skin, even as he carefully rolled his hips, and 007 made a choked, whimpering sound, sucking harder and doing something wicked with his tongue that made Q swallow a moan of his own. "I think that you could come from just that," Q added, with a glance downwards at 007's flushed arousal, dripping onto the plush carpet, "Not that I would let you."

007's hips jerked at that, and he gagged as he blindly tried to take another inch, before pulling back to bob his head instead, sensuous mouth stretched slick over Q's cock; desire seemed richer today, heady, and it took Q a moment to pinpoint why. 

He didn't need toys with James, not any longer, and perhaps he hadn't for a while, no collars or leashes or whips, not even any verbal taking downs; 007 would submit to him if he willed it, snap and bark and sneer on occasion but he would still drop to his knees on a touch and a word, even with all his considerable pride on the line, and maybe, maybe this was really what M was worried about all along. _Good_ , Q thought, a little fiercely, and desire tipped in a rush that nearly caught him by surprise, stuttering his hips into James' mouth with his hand clawed tight against skin to leave red crescents, letting out a sharp breath when 007 merely moaned. At the last moment, he dragged 007 back, made him blink, then gasp as Q stroked himself and spilled thick spurts of come over 007's mouth and throat. 

"Fuck," 007 slurred, his gorgeous blue eyes glazed with lust, his voice broken, as Q sank back against the couch, sweating and belatedly loosening his tie, tossing his phone aside. 

"Come up here, James," Q instructed, only slightly unsteady, and 007 obeyed, getting stiffly to his feet, then sitting down beside Q on the couch when directed by touch. Q climbed on, his smile lazy. "Lube?"

"Bedroom." 

"Stay here. Don't touch yourself." Walking was almost a stumble, even after kicking off his shoes, pants and boxers, especially when Q got back out from locating condoms and lube to the wreck that James was on the couch, his eyes blown dark with lust and come drying on his skin, his cock painfully hard, almost curved, and he whined when Q opened the condom packet and rolled it on briskly. "You have only yourself to blame," Q noted dryly, "Might have caught something from the bar girl."

"We didn't get very far, thanks to you," 007 rasped, watching greedily as Q lubed up his own fingers and pushed two impatiently into himself, gritting his teeth at the stretch. At least Sunday's games had served for something, and prep wasn't going to take long, even if he wanted it to, not with James squirming and letting out soft, wounded sounds when Q arched up against the press of his fingers. 

James let out a low hiss when Q settled down over him, sinking carefully over his lap, forcing himself to relax and take it all in, enjoy the fat stretch of 007's cock, and then he grinned lazily at James, lapping a wet stripe up a slick of come, and kissing him, forcing the taste into 007's mouth. James' cock throbbed as he let out a startled moan, then another, as Q slowly repeated the gesture, filthy and intimate until James was almost clean and his hips were twitching and jerking against Q, near desperate now with need.

"Please move," James gasped, his hands clenched tight over Q's hips, " _Please_."

"You can come like this," Q disagreed, and James shook against him as he grazed a lower lip with his teeth. "You will, won't you? If I want you to?"

"Can't," James choked, his voice strangled, then, pulsing inside Q and writhing, already close, good _boy_ , "Please!"

"You will, James," Q promised, rubbing his thumbs up over high cheekbones, licking up the last of his spend and thrusting his tongue into James' mouth as deeply as he could, even as he ground down and clenched tight, swallowed James' surprised cry with a greedy smile and waited, riding it out, pressing brushing kisses over parted lips and stroking James' arms and shoulders until he went boneless.

III.

M had 'kindly' sent a car, and Q settled comfortably into the back seat beside 007. Either the Kabul situation was deteriorating, or perhaps the 00s always warranted the royal treatment. 007 was curled contentedly against him, an arm around the small of his back, clearly not caring what the driver might think, and Q petted his thigh absently, looking out of the window.

After a while, he admitted, quietly, "I did make that gun for you."

007 huffed. "I know."

"Not ostensibly. All the rest of what I said was true, too."

"It was obvious to me."

"I didn't mean any harm." This time, there was a snort, and no answer, so Q added, a touch acerbically, "I thought that it would improve your chances of survival in the field."

"It would've."

Q thought about instructing 007 to take the bloody gun, damn it all, as he watched the traffic go past, then he sighed and tilted his head as James grazed lips up over his throat, nuzzling him. Old dogs had their pride. "Give it back when we're back at Q-branch. I'll exchange it for one of the usual pieces. Do try to return it in some sort of recognisable shape or form." 

"I'll try," 007 drawled, as insincere as ever, and mouthed a languid line up Q's jaw, to trace the curl of his lips with the flat of his tongue.

**Author's Note:**

> I think that's all the Bond/Q prompts I have. :3 Watched the movie finally in theatre yesterday. So awesome!


End file.
